The young men dressed next morning in almost complete silence. Tom was still sleepy, and seemed much less jovial and attractive than he had been the previous evening; Seth, accustomed to far earlier rising, was acutely awake, but his head ached wearily and there was a dreadful dryness in his mouth and throat. They went through the forms of breakfast in the basement, too, without much conversation. Seth was ashamed of the number of cups of coffee he drank, and carried away only confused recollections of having been introduced to a middle-aged woman in black who sat at the head of the table, and of having perfunctorily answered sundry questions about business in Dearborn County, put by a man who sat next to him. They were well on their way to the office before Tom’s silent mood wore away. “You must brace up!” he said. “Don’t let Workman know that we were out together last night. He’s a regular crank about beer--that is, when anybody but himself drinks it. What’s the matter? You look as melancholy as a man going to be hanged.” “I suppose I’m nervous about the thing. It’s all going to be so new and strange at the start.” “Oh, that’ll be all right. You’ll get the hang of it fast enough. They are rather decent fellows to work with upstairs, all but Samboye. He’ll try to sit on you from the start, but if you hold your own with him you’ll get along with the rest.” “Samboye--he’s the editor, isn’t he?” “Yes. You don’t know any of them, I suppose?” “Not even by name.” “Well, after Workman, who’s very rightly named, and who runs the thing, there’s Samboye, who koo-toos to Workman and bullies all the rest. He puts on more airs than a mowing machine agent at a state fair. He makes _everybody_ tired. Next to him comes Tyler--Tony Tyler, you’ll like him--that is, if he takes a fancy to you. He knows about eighteen hundred times as much as Samboye does, only somehow he hasn’t the faculty of putting it on paper. Too much whisky. Then there’s Dent--he’s a Young Man Christian; plays duets on the piano with his sister, you know, and all that sort of thing--but he’s away now on his vacation. And then Billy Murtagh--he’s a rattling good fellow, if you don’t let him borrow money of you. He does part of the telegraph and news. Those are the only fellows upstairs.” “But where do you come in?” “Me? Oh, I’m the City Editor. I and my gang are downstairs. I made a strike to have you down with me, and put you on police court, but Workman wouldn’t have it. It’s all poppycock, for they’ve got more men upstairs now than they know what to do with. However, if Workman thinks the people want to read editorials on the condition of Macedonia more than they do local news, he can go ahead. It’s none of my funeral.” “Do you know what special work I am to do?”